flawed, but logic nonetheless
by chaoticsanity
Summary: Somewhat darker (and hopefully longer) version of "Mismatched". Title is based off of a later quote in the story. I've always wondered what would happen if Watson was more seriously injured and Holmes couldn't handle the fallout. Features Mycroft and some original characters as well. Happy reading!
1. Prelude

He looks even more hawk-like now, John Watson decides, when he leers so close to the muted flame of their lamplight.

Sharp angles become even sharper, you see, when highlighted with shadow.

Holmes' is whispering something, perhaps to himself, perhaps to him; Watson isn't exactly paying enough attention. He should be, for it is dark (save for their flame), dangerous, and the paper that Holmes clutches between his spindly and shaking fingers is something Mycroft quoted as _"necessary for the safety and security of our great nation"_.

Holmes is smiling now and Watson wants desperately to smile with him, to pretend that he _didn't _see the small and trembling child hiding in the rafters above their heads and the small and trembling pistol said child held tightly in his hands. Watson wants to smile back at Holmes, clap him heartily on his shoulder and follow dutifully behind as the detective leads them cheerfully out of this dank basement and back into a world that is bright and happy.

But those endings are meant for fairy tales, John Watson chides himself, and now Holmes is speaking quickly and softly and turns his hurricane gray eyes onto John himself, but John is still not listening. At the moment, he is running his own deductions through his mind and coming up with a list that he hopes is at least half as accurate as Holmes' are:

_a young boy, obviously scared and just as inexperienced_

_perhaps a servant of Lord Carlton's, one that he forced into his plot—that means this child must be ordered to kill Holmes_

_notice how he grips the pistol with both hands? He is unsure and unsteady-_

And then, of course, that's when the realization finally hits, because the truth of the matter always waits until the last moment to surprise you, doesn't it? A child clutching a gun and hiding in the rafters who must be there to kill Holmes is unsure and unsteady, which could only mean one thing really, for even Holmes himself told him once _"whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth". _And the truth, Watson decides, must be this: the child does not know who is who. Now, that makes Watson's ultimatum both easier and harder at the same time, for he knows what he has to do and he is most certainly afraid to do it. But John H. Watson has been afraid before, and if there is one thing that fear does, it is this: it makes you aware.

Aware of what you must do, and John H. Watson knows what he must do; for Holmes and for his country (and most certainly for Holmes).

The dull throbbing in his ears that appeared when he first saw the child now begins to disappear and is replaced with the more familiar drone of Holmes' sombre voice, now raised to the excited pitch that Watson has come to know means the culmination of a case:

"- must admit, though, he chose quite a moronic place to hide such a worthy document, wouldn't you say? In his cellar cabinets, honestly. Mycroft will at least be pleased we've retrieved it. _Safety and security_, remember?" He chuckles lightly, and Watson takes a moment to appreciate his friend in all of his exulted glory, in this moment before-

"Come then, let us go." Holmes' voice scatters Watson's thoughts like a professional billiards stick, and each idea falls away until only one rolls to the forefront of his mind.

Time, the funny bugger, seems to slow, like all the world was dipped in a thick coat of molasses and Watson watches with wary eyes that he honed in Afghanistan.

Holmes' hand rests lightly for a moment on his upper-right bicep, a silent urge to leave, and then he passes behind Watson with the lamp in his left hand and the paper already tucked in his jacket pocket. Watson turns on his heel to follow, and sneaks a nonchalant glance up towards the rafters where the young boy still crouches, the glint of the pistol flicking between himself and Holmes. Watson's heart starts thumping loudly in his chest as he lays a hand solidly on Holmes' left shoulder and speaks loudly to the air: "Excellent work, Watson. Excellent work."

Then time speeds up again; Watson's hand falls, Holmes head snaps to his in confusion, and the sound of a gunshot rings out in the muted darkness.

John Watson notices two things as well, before it all turns black. First is the expression on Holmes' face; and second is the cold shock of a bullet entering his shoulder for a second time.


	2. Week One

I shut my eyes, and watch as the darkness becomes intermingled with tiny flashes of white light. I squeeze my eyes tighter, so much tighter, until the light blooms bright like an explosion and my head begins to throb.

Open; and the sunlight burns. I take a moment to become adjusted and sneak another drag of my sixty-second cigarette. I feel hazy, like the smoke that trails from the butt of my fag. Oh, and how beautiful smoke is- the way it curls around every object in our lodgings; how I can twist it in my fingers and let it glide away.

Another drag, longer this time, and I leave the cigarette dangling from my lips.

I slouch lower in my armchair, until I fall with a bodily _thump _onto the floor. My hands are still shaking and my stomach begins to roll again, desperate for sustenance, but I cannot be bothered to move. I suck lightly on my tobacco and begin to count the motes that glimmer within the sliver of sunlight that peeks through the heavy drapes.

It isn't a worthy enough distraction, for my mind is soon refilled with the images of Watson's bloodstained shoulder and they _won't leave_, they stay and torture me and I rub my eyes to make them _go away. _

I leap off of the floor with a noise that comes deep from my throat- a growl, perhaps? Or a sound of despair? -and search for another cigarette and try to ignore these feelings that seem to make my whole body tremble and my chest ache.

Ah! finally, my cigarettes. I rip the pack open and start another one with quivering fingers, flinging the stub of my last one somewhere near the fireplace. Suck in the smoke, oh- so relaxing. I slump back down on the floor with crossed legs and try not to think of how much blood Watson spilled only the night before.

* * *

Day four, now, according to Mrs. Hudson when she brings in a small tray of fresh tea and biscuits. There is a crease between her eyes when she looks at me, and she doesn't say anything else (though I can see she wants too; it's all there, written in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, the way her hands fidget at her sides). She stares for only a moment before retreating back downstairs, leaving me to watch with heavy lids.

I look down at my left arm, where my right hand slowly pumps more cocaine through the hypodermic needle that it cradles. I watch as the last of my 7 per cent solution drains slowly into my vein. I believe I can feel it, flowing through-out my body, though I know that such a feeling is not actually possible.

I breathe out a hefty sigh and let it shudder in my chest. My head falls back against the floor, and I carelessly fling the empty syringe across the room. It is of no use to me now.

Four days, hm.

It seems strange that at this moment, Watson is lying quietly in his hospital bed in an imitation of sleep while I lie on on our sitting room floor in an imitation of death.

I find my lips quirking of their own accord. What a morbid sense of humour I posses.

I roll onto my stomach and push myself off of the floor, twirling 'round until I collapse safely in to a dining chair. I pour myself a small amount of (lukewarm) tea and nibble halfheartedly at a biscuit. My body feels slow but my mind is racing, racing, _racing _so fast.

* * *

I stare at the empty bottle that lays on the floor, and consider my motives. My cocaine is gone and slowly wearing off, but the thought of leaving our flat to recover the necessary ingredients to make another batch is displeasing.

Outside, the sun slips lower into the horizon, coloring the sky a bloodied red.

I look away.

My hands are trembling again, and there is an itch deep within my skin that aggravates me, motivates me to find _something _to sate it. My mind splits into two separate parts and bickers against itself: _the drugs will help, they will keep your mind active with problems and work and block bloodstained shoulders out; you're slipping under their influence, too much and your mind will become addicted just like Watson warned you_

I grip the sides of my armchair and try to control the voices, but they just get louder and louder and leave me twitching and they need to stop, by God, _stop! _

I've leapt from my chair and begun pacing. There is too much now; too much stimulation, too much light and noise and no case, no distraction, no Watson to make it all go away.

I stop pacing and stand still and press my hands to my eyes. Something; I need something to dull my senses and let me simply waft in a purgatory.

It takes me less than three minutes to decide upon the morphine that Watson keeps safely tucked inside his medical kit. It takes me another two minutes to crash up the stairs and into his room to find his bag, and another two and a half minutes to locate a syringe and fill my veins with the stuff.

It takes another four minutes before I feel guilty and one more minute before I feel nothing at all.

* * *

I am at least thankful for the quiet.

His room is quite secluded from the rest of the hospital, and the blaring buzz of people's needs and complaints has been reduced to a inconsistent hum.

The façade of peaceful sleep is intensified in person. His chest moves slow and steady (much too slowly for my liking) and every so often his eyes roll under his lids. The bandages that adorn his left shoulder have just been changed by a young women with sandy hair the colour of Watson's moustache who is also involved in a tricky affair with her cousin's husband, if her fingernails are indication (which of course, they are).

My temples are throbbing with a dull ache from the after-effects of four days with little food and an assortment of drugs, and I find my pain to be a _cum laude_ consequence for filching my friend's medicines. Perhaps it was guilt, then, that finally forced me to dress presentably and visit him here. If I can be fully truthful with myself, my reasons are something that I find I do not want to dissect at this current time.

I reach out and stroke my fingers along his bandages, careful not to put pressure on his wound- the wound that he took for me because the man is simply too damned selfless-

I pull my hand back quickly. No, no, no, not now, certainly not now. That night is pulled from the file in my brain-attic and replayed with detailed alacrity in my mind; moments that I have no intention of reliving are splayed across my eyelids with every blink.

I focus sharply on Watson's face and shut the memories out.

His doctor (a doctor for a doctor, what a paradox), a haggard Scotsman with a snowy beard claims that the duration of Watson's comatose state cannot yet be determined, but he assures me that his vitals remain on a consistently good level.

His shoulder, on the other hand, has been exposed to a horrifically large sum of trauma that the doctor says has resulted in a ballooned blood vessel in his subclavian artery. He then laid a calloused hand on my shoulder and said nothin' more could be done unteel the lad woke up.

There is so much that bubbles beneath my surface that at times I feel as though I could implode. It is a feeling (gah, _feeling_) that I do not want to deal with any more. But Watson, he looks so peaceful. I stare hard at his face and fight back a touch of envy.


	3. Week Two

**A/N: So, it occured to me a few days ago that six days is not actually one week and I might be the only person that confuses 'two weeks' with 'one dozen'. For the record, dear Dr. Watson has only been in a coma for twelve days, but I'm keeping the chapter titles as "Week One" and "Week Two" just because. Happy reading, luvs.**

* * *

It is a simple telegram:

DOUBLE MURDER PAST HAMPSTEAD. 674 ELDON GRV. ASSISTANCE WOULD BE APPRECIATED.

BEST WISHES TO DR WATSON.

G. LESTRADE

At any other time, such an intriguing request from Inspector Lestrade would have me bounding down the stairs in a hurry. Of course, any other time, Watson would be following shortly behind with a quirked smile and his revolver tucked safely within his coat pocket.

I shut my eyes at the mental image and ignore Lestrade's request.

* * *

I sit stoically in front of our book-case and marvel at the diversity. Woven within my many scientific volumes and journals are Watson's fantastical stories and medical texts. It is like a spiderweb with so many intricate layers; we've built and built upon this bookshelf until it can no longer be called _mine_ or _his_. It is _ours_.

I focus intensely on one book in particular: _The New-England Journal of Medicine and Surgery, vol. VII. _It is Watson's of course, a book that he said his uncle found when he traveled to the Americas. It was then bequeathed to him when his uncle discovered his interest in medicinal science.

It is simple, with a leather-bound cover and plain stitching. I pick it out from its place between a Dickens novel and my journal on human anatomy and hold it lightly in my hands.

"He will come back," I find myself saying. "He will wake up soon and return back home." The book does not respond and I certainly do not expect it to.

I stroke down its' spine. "If he doesn't come back," I pause, "I'll burn you." Still no response. It is strange and most illogical to be conversing with a book, but the pressure in my chest has lightened so I cannot find my self minding.

* * *

I wake up on the ninth morning in Watson's chair. I sit without moving for long moments, and suddenly my eyes burn and my throat is thick.

I am a man who is distant from emotion, but no man can be completely devoid of it.

* * *

I hand the papers to Mycroft without uttering a word and he takes them in the same way, only releasing a satisfied grunt when he unfolds their length. I get a quick glance at strings of numbers, all penned out in a (seemingly) nonsensical way before my brother folds the sheets back up and places them carefully in a secret compartment within his desk drawer.

"My greatest thanks to you, Sherlock," he intones solemnly, bowing his head slightly to me. I am struck with the sudden image of a great walrus, and I clench my teeth to prevent a grin.

Honestly, a _dreadful _sense of humour.

I make a mental note to tell Watson of my discovery.

He gestures to a chair and I sit, trying to ignore the flickering of his eyes over my (quite dishevelled) person. I let him create his conclusions and speak instead:

"What of Lord Carlton, then, Mycroft?" I could honestly not care, but when Watson wakes he will certainly want to know the conclusions of this case. Mycroft takes a moment to be pulled from his reverie, but he answers quickly enough.

"He will be hanged for treason in a fortnight." He has always been a master of blunt answers.

"Tell me again, brother," I tease, "how such important papers of yours befell the hands of a thief?" Mycroft looks thoughtful a moment, then reproachful.

"My trust, admittedly, went in to the hands of the wrong person. Though it must be stated that Carlton managed to pull the wool over the eyes of a substantial amount of people as well." He pauses, seems to consider, then speaks again. "What of Doctor Watson?"

It is like a raw wound, the subject of my doctor, and his question is like a swab of alcohol; I find myself tensing.

"Yes, what of him?" Mycroft's brows raise a fraction.

"He has been unconscious and incapacitated for nearly ten days now, hasn't he?" I can feel my right eye twitch. His methods of questioning begin to aggravate me.

"Ten days exactly, now, Mycroft," I say, and it comes out clipped. I struggle to keep my face a sculpted mask, but beneath I am boiling.

"What of the child?" he asks.

I answer honestly: "I was preoccupied at the time; where the child went was no concern of mine." That _damnable _child. He considers me for another moment before saying, "He will be found, then." I nod.

I leave soon after.

* * *

The day is dwindling into night and I place the latest of Watson's manuscripts back in his desk drawer. Our cases, all written out neatly in his round script.

All over-dramatized, of course, romanticized to appease the crowds that read his works. Falsehoods, as well; misnomers to protect identities, contradictory dates and the likes. Even dulling himself down as to highlight my brilliance. (_Frustrating, _so_ frustrating._)

I read fourteen of our stories and three of his newest editions, yet to be published. It was comforting; a way to hear his voice in my mind from memories so long ago.

Now I pull myself wearily to my bed. I use my chamberpot quickly and draw on a (much recycled) night-gown. The time pushes towards forty minutes after ten, but I am jaded for other reasons.

* * *

It is ten past four in the morning when a pounding starts on my door.


	4. Awake, my God, awake

**A/N: Sorry this one took a little longer (and sorry it's so short), but school's back in session and a lot is suddenly flying onto my plate right now. I'm hoping to get (a lot) more updating at least by this weekend. Thanks, all.**

**P.S. Also, special shoutout to _godiva33_, _I'm Nova_, and a really sweet _Guest_ who have been leaving lovely comments, as well as anyone else who has favorited or followed this story. All my love.**

I stumble from the entanglement of my bed-sheets and stifle a surprised curse. What, what, _what _would any one want at this hour?

The pounding becomes louder and I manage my way tiredly down the small hallway and fling open the door to find a bright-eyed young lad who blinks at me owlishly.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asks, and I nod. He smiles, looking much too pleased with himself while I try to force the muddled sleep from my head and determine why this boy is here.

"Oi, I'm glad I found ya, guv. I thought good ol' Doc Cowley was gonna give me a beatin' for loitering around this morning, but I'm happy enough runnin' a few errands for 'im if it means I can earn some money," he looks pointedly at me, "and it really isn't too much trouble, ya see, because I've run around deliverin' messages before, and-" I hold up my hand and he stops. I blink hard, once, to clear my vision, and stoop down to the young boy's height.

"You have a message for me, then?" I say, and the boy lifts up his chin with pride.

"Ta, I do. Doctor Cowley wanted me to tell," his mouth contorts, "Sherlock Holmes," another pointed look, "you, that a Mister Watson has woken up, and you're to come by immediately."

For a moment I am simply stunned.

I leap up so quickly that the child takes a surprised step back. The poor thing must think me possessed, for I certainly feel it. I bound back down to my room (the boy yells something about his expenses) and search hurriedly for something to look presentable in. After flinging my room about, I finally pull on a pair of trousers and rush back out in to the hallway, falling against the wall in the process. The boy, who had wandered farther into our flat, jumps again. He stares as I pull on my overcoat and boots, and I happen to hold his stare.

His eyes are a ruddy green-blue, like Watson's.

I take a hefty sigh and move over to my drawers, searching for my coin purse. I pull out a few shillings and turn to face him again.

"Thank you," I say, and I let the phrase hang until he finishes, "Harry." I smile: "Thank you, Harry." I toss him the shillings and brush past him on the way out, too occupied with thoughts of Watson (awake, my God, _awake_) to escort him out.

He shouts though, from the top of the stairs as I am leaving, "Thanks, guv!" and then I am outside in the still blackness of dawn searching for a carriage, a hansom, _anything._

I glance a dog-cart sitting on the side of the road and hurry toward it. The young man, who was previously grooming his horse (a lovely chestnut mare) looks up as I come closer. He looks astonished to see a person at this early hour, but he circles 'round his horse to meet me.

"Do you be needin' to go somewhere?" he asks, his voice slightly tainted with an accent of the Isles. I nod quickly and give him the name of the hospital where Watson resides.

"A sovereign if you can get me there in under ten minutes," I offer, and his eyes widen. He swallows loudly and tells me to get on.

I do, gratefully, and grip the edges of my seat tightly as he whips the horse into action. The ride is uncomfortable but thankfully quick, and I tip the man accordingly. He gives me a half-crooked smile and rides off again.

I am left standing in front of the hospital.


	5. The Hawk and the Bull Hound

**A/N: All I can say is that I'm so sorry, dears. School and some extra-curricular stuff completely took me by surprise and left my muse hiding in the back of my mind. However, I recently re-found it and am completely excited to be working on this again. Thanks for all the support so far; lovely reading.**

* * *

His door looks so similar to the others: uncharacteristic, ordinary. Like a simple wooden slab that hides an entire world that shifts at my feet.

I lean softly against the door, my temple grazing against the tiny grains.

I can hear Watson's voice. It is almost dream-like, to me, hearing the soft timbres of his speech after imagining them for so long.

My hand quivers on the door handle, waiting. Another voice now, rugged with a Scottish brogue (the doctor Cowley, apparently, as if I ever gave thought as to what the man's name was). I press my ear harder to the grain and pick out his words:

"—he'll be 'ere shortly, John, donnae you worry." A pause. "I'm glad to see ya awake lad." There's a soft chuckle and then Watson speaks, "Bill stop, I'm fine now am I not?" No response, then Watson once more: "Are you sure he is on his way?" The doubt in his voice cuts my skin like shards. (I'm here Watson, I am so close.) There is the sound of shuffling, then a reassurance from the Doctor. I back away quietly from the door at the same moment the knob turns and Doctor Cowley comes shambling out.

He releases a huff of surprised breath and his hand slips halfway to heart, clutching at the fabric.

"Och, Mister Holmes," he murmurs, slipping closed the door behind him, "you've got 'a sneaky way of movin' 'round, 'aven't you?" His eyebrows raise with the question, and I watch the lines of his aged face move with them. I do not answer him, and instead pose a question of my own:

"What of his condition, Doctor? What has happened?" Cowley's lips purse for a instant, almost like he is considering whether or not to tell me.

"His condition remains the same as I said before: a ballooned artery, most likely a subclavian aneurysm." He looks at me again, and I feel as though he is weighing my character. "He's in pain, Mister Holmes. As of this moment, he's on a fairly regular dose of morphine, but if I know John, as soon as he comes to 'is senses he'll deny it."

"What can be done for him?" I want to know, desperately.

"Try to convince him that the morphine will help. As for the aneurysm, well, I hate to say this but," he takes a moment to consider, "there's nothin' I can do unless it bursts." I take this information in while watching the glimmer of the moon shine on the tiled floor.

"I cannae do surgery while it's still ballooned," he continues, "and I certainly will not risk it so soon on such a damaged shoulder. Just—wait 'til it bursts, and when it does, bring 'im here immediately."

"What else, what else can you tell me?" I need to know _everything_. "What might make it burst?" His look becomes slightly reproachful.

"Don't try to force it. The damn thing is fickle; stress, pain, shock, even I'm not quite sure what would trigger it. Just know that he needs to be here the moment it does. Once it bursts, it will be operational."

I make a mental note to do more research on the subject.

I nod outwardly, putting a silent end to the conversation. Cowley moves to walk around me, and he murmurs, "He's tired, be gentle with'em." I nod again and wonder slightly at the fatherly tone. (Why does he call you _John _when I never can? Who is _Bill _to you, Watson?)

I am still standing in front of his door as the sound of Doctor Cowley's footsteps grow fainter down the hall.

My hand is back on the handle, quivering just like earlier, only this time I turn it.

Watson's eyes are shut and for the briefest of seconds my mind (my _mind_, of all things!) rebels against reality and believes in a nightmarish fantasy (was I tricked? Is he, in fact, dead, and I simply refuse to accept that truth? Am I alone, now, after growing so accustomed to having my bull hound follow swiftly and steadfastly at my side, never wavering, always my conductor of light even when wallowing in my dank darkness—)

And then his eyes open—slowly, of course, but they open and suddenly I am crouched at his side. His mouth slips into a smile, such a miniscule smile, but it is one that has been lost in our flat for nearly a fortnight.

He begins to break into a quiet laughter as my grin gets wider. My hand still quivers; could I reach out for Watson's?

"You look positively disgusting, Holmes." His first words to me are quiet and worn down with weariness, but there is a subtle string of excitement that quivers his speech and leaves me breathless.

"Yes, and you look shot," I reply. I regret the words even as they roll from my tongue, but Watson's shaky laughter simply grows. (I lay fault with the morphine.)

There is so much that roams free in my mind that I yearn to tell him. Words that I can see but cannot form and I am left simply staring. He stares back. (The smile never leaves.) I force my lips to part and watch the lines on his face as I speak:

"Did you know Mycroft is a walrus?"

His eyes almost close with the force of his laughter, and my own become blurred with my mirth.

By the time our giggling ends, I am strung limply along his bedside and his hand is twisted securely in the fabric of my shirt. I can feel his hand untwisting as his snickers die down, and soon after I feel his eyes.

"You," he takes a moment to catch the breath his shoulder stole, "you are still wearing your night-shirt, my dear fellow." I look up and the smile is still there (always there).

"So I am," I reply, but I cannot honestly say that I care. So many words that sit in dormancy, but I hold them back instead; save them for the walls of our home.

"Does that make you the hawk, then?" Watson speaks again, after our silence grows thin. "The walrus and the hawk?" Accurate descriptions, dear boy, but the wrong characters.

"No, no," I assure him, and his eyebrows crease, "The hawk and the bull hound." (The hawk and the bull hound; I force down a ridiculous smile.)

Watson does not. His teeth shine in the moon's light.


	6. Home Soon

**A/N: A long chapter, and still a bit slow, but it's building _trust me. _Hope you enjoy and reviews are much appreciated and loved. Also: I think I have a mild addiction to parentheses.**

* * *

His skin shimmers like sand in this light. It is easy to imagine when the sun hits him perfectly: pores are replaced with grains that shift with every movement and follow along the weathered lines of his face.

The nurse moves quietly around him, stepping in and out of the stream of sunlight that blooms from the opened window. She sneaks another glance at me, and I watch as her fingers reach out for Watson's bandages. My mind flares with excitement (and envy).

It looks like a spider's web in the sand, bloodied tendrils that stretch from the edge of his left shoulder to the tip of his clavicle. Scars that were once there are highlighted by fresh wounds, raw breaks in his skin that adorn him like war paint. My sand-man is his own battleground, now.

The nurse wraps the dirtied bandages neatly over her arm and carefully maneuvers a fresh dressing around his shoulder. He jolts himself back to consciousness when she pulls the cloth taunt, and releases a heavy huff of breath. I find that my hand is wrapped around his wrist with a speed I was unaware of possessing. I can feel the gallop of his heartbeat between the ridges of his veins.

Watson slipped back into sleep only an hour after we had talked, a symptom I assume that comes with his injury. I watched him until he drifted awake sometime in the pre-dawn. He stared blankly at me with wide eyes for several long moments until they slid shut once more. (It was a strange look; it unnerved me.)

Now he breathes heavily in the glow of morning, stirring the motes around him. The woman brushes the tips of her fingers down his deltoid and apologizes softly. She is gone in a moment, after discarding the used bandages and instructing me that the Doctor will be visiting us shortly.

Watson shifts to look at me and I remove my hand from his wrist. (He doesn't seem to notice.) He stretches his length down the bed and lets out a satisfactory groan when a substantial amount of joints pop.

"How long have I been unconscious, Holmes?" he hums. He seems surprisingly unconcerned about his current condition.

"Twelve days." My answer is succinct. He looks over at me with furrowed brows, and I am suddenly struck with the enormity of this situation. (He's alive, he's alive, _he's alive, alive, alive._)

"Twelve," he considers, then: "It is already August, then?"

"Yes; August the fourth, nineteen o'five." His sharp bark of laughter confuses me.

"Well my dear man, I hope it's the same year." A small smile rises to the surface of my mouth; for every amount of intellect I possess, Watson possesses an equal amount of witticisms.

He stretches again, twisting his body in an endeavor to sit up, but his shoulder pulls sharply in the attempt and he leans heavily on his side with a wince. I murmur a gentle reprimand and help him up, one arm underneath the crook of his and the other wrapped around his waist, pulling him upright. He releases an exhausted sigh and looks over at me. He smiles, and I have the strong suspicion that he is hiding behind a mask of cheerful indifference.

It feels like cheap platitude, but I ask: "How do you feel?" His smile fades into a soft frown. I can see the hairs of his moustache quiver slightly.

"My shoulder aches," he says matter-of-factly, "but I am assuming that the pain will become much more intense once the morphine wears off." He watches me, as if expecting a rebuttal, but I say none. (It will come Watson; stay wary.) He glances out at the window and watches the sunlight. His expression takes on a tone that I cannot quite define (regret, anger? Sorrow?)

"And another bullet," he continues. "The same shoulder as well. Lady Providence has never quite been on my side, has she?" He smiles, but the bitterness that is laced between his words stings. (You didn't have to take that bullet, Watson. You didn't have to be so _damned _selfless, he didn't know, _he wouldn't have shot you, you idiotic man—_)

Doctor Cowley strolls in the room the moment my mouth falls open, and I use his distraction to close it and clear my mind. (_Would you tell him, _my mind sneers, _would you shatter his self-effacing illusion so soon?_) No, of course I wouldn't. (Perhaps I'll never tell him.)

Watson obviously uses Cowley's entrance as well, for he heaves a hefty sigh and seems to dispel the aura of sullenness around him. Cowley seems oblivious to the string of tension between us; I want it gone.

"How're ya doin', lad?" he asks, and the fatherly tone is back. Watson's smile seems genuine again as he says: "Better, and successfully awake." He nods to me. "And with company now." Cowley seems pleased that I am still sitting by Watson's side (as if I would leave him) and fiddles around Watson, taking his heart beat and measuring his blood pressure. Watson complies, though I have known him to be a somewhat finicky patient.

"Alright then, John," Cowley says slowly, after finishing his observations, "Let me go through what ya need t'know before you head back home." Watson looks politely interested, but I tense in anticipation: we will be home soon, Watson, so soon.

The Doctor's heavy brows lower as he begins his speech: "You'll be weary, laddie. Donnae be surprised if you find yourself tired more often, or if ya sleep many times durin' the day." I file the information away.

"Be careful of that aneurysm," Cowley continues, but Watson waves his words down: "I know, Bill, I am quite aware of what I can and cannot do." (Such familiarity between them; where does it come from?) The Doctor looks uncertain, but my doctor holds his gaze until the silent war between them is won.

"Alright lad, I know ya know," Cowley finally resigns. He stares at Watson with warm eyes before patting him gently on the arm, muttering more warnings that sound surprisingly good-natured. He shuffles out of the room with one last reminder: "Take the time you need, John, and when you're ready, have Holmes here escort ya out. The nurse'll be waitin' with your release forms." Watson sends him one last thank-you before the door shuts.

"Well," Watson begins, throwing off the sheets that cover his body, "I am more than ready to leave." He glances over at me. "I have been awake for only a day, but I feel as though I have been away from home for months." I rise from my seat and ignore the feeling of pin-pricks through-out my legs, instead focusing on lifting Watson from his bed.

"Our rooms will finally have noise again, John," I say and inwardly I freeze. Watson glances sharply at me but says nothing, only leaning heavily against me as we walk. (His limp is distinct now, and he walks alongside me in a broken gait.) He will ask later, when we are enclosed in our rooms, where his Christian name sprang from, and I take the time to prepare an answer. (Could I say jealousy to you, Watson? Would you believe that a man like myself could fall prey to something so common?)

We limp together through the halls in a silence that I want to chip away at. The nurse behind the desk signs Watson out and we soon leave the hospital out into the sun streaked greying sky.


	7. A Whetstone No Longer

**A/N: So. Yeah. It's been awhile. School and some extra-curricular stuff took over my life and beat my muse into submission. Luckily, though, it's been reignited and I'm glad to be working on this baby again. Let's hope for some more regular updates, huh? Happy reading and drop a comment if ya please~**

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If earlier he was a blazing desert, he is certainly now being weathered away, for I can see how dull he gets with each step into the grey-washed city. (London, _our London, _how could you do this to him?)

_Perhaps you are leaving too soon_, I yearn to say, _perhaps, John, you shouldn't go just yet. _

(Stop it.)

(But perhaps I cannot take another day in that too-quiet flat of ours. Perhaps I shall keep my mouth shut as long he is next to me, _finally next to me_.)

Such a short distance to the kerb and already his breathing sounds laboured.

"Careful now," I murmur as I reach one hand to hail a carriage, a cart, something. John lets out a heavy sigh, placing a tender amount of weight on his stubbornly aching leg, testing its abilities.

(Stop it, now, _you cannot call him that._)

I can see the muscles that hide around his jaw twitch with the effort.

"My cane will soon become a necessity again." He speaks softly, and his grasp becomes tighter in my loosely-clad over-coat as I stop an oncoming cab. I use the excuse of helping him into the interior to avoid giving a response that I have not procured. (What would I say to you? that you are broken? You are not, John.)

(_Stop stop stop you cannot call him that, you have never earned the right to call him that, stop!_)

So many thoughts and words that flicker in my mind that I cannot form, cannot yet put to use. The silence that we ride alongside is only broken by the intermittent sounds of John (_stop, please_) choking back pained gasps.

Oh, and how I want to break our silence, shatter it like glass. To have the chance to tell him what lies underneath this mask I give the world (to ask him to take off his own). To tell him what I did on each day he was unconscious—the cigarettes, the lethargy, the cocaine, morphine (_oh, forgive me_), the nostalgia.

The tears.

Would I tell you about the tears, John (_enough; stop!_), about the ache that wrapped itself around my lungs until I saw your opened eyes? Could you believe me when I say that I worried? that our friendship has come to mean more than a whetstone and the cases?

I glance over to him, and our eyes catch. They are green-blue, just like I remember, just like young Harry's. I lean forward in the tight cabin we sit in and place a hand on his knee.

"I've missed your company, my good man," I say after a moment's pause. (My mouth avoids forming his name, for I know it will come out as 'John', and those four letters are ones I fear I have no permission in giving.)

He smiles widely, with a power I relish in. He slaps his hand heartily on top of mine and says, "Well, I am quite glad to be back in the world of the living!" Our hands fall away with ease and somehow a small string of conversation begins to grow like the molds that breed beneath my microscope. Common, inconsequential things pass our lips (_"Twelve days of unconsciousness must wreak havoc on one's mind." "It is not as though I actually _thought _while being comatose, Holmes." "Oh, but would that not be fascinating! To be asleep and see everything as well?" "That is a fantasy only you would procure, now isn't it?"_) but it is conversation nonetheless and oh, how it thrills me. His smiles are only interrupted when his shoulder bites at him, and mine are only interrupted when his are. Soon enough the cab stops and my excitement grows tenfold. (We are home, home finally home!)

I swerve easily from the cab and follow 'round it to Watson's side, (_yes, call him his name, his true name_) helping him down onto the pavement below. We both become stock-still at the cabbie's request for money, for my pocketbook is strewn somewhere in the upstairs apartment and Watson bears only his coat and the cheap garments the hospital provided him.

Watson, who still clings heavily to me, tries to twist around and face the young man holding the reins, but I grasp the side of his chest and stop him. (I will take care of this Watson, do not worry. _I will take care of you._)

"I'm afraid," I begin, and the cabbie looks equal parts irritated and suspicious, "that neither of us are currently carrying money." The cabbie leans down from his perch and slowly croons:

"Well, this must be your flat, hm? Can you not-" he flicks his finger toward the upstairs window "-go up there, get a few guinea, perhaps even a shilling or two-" his finger swings back down "-and bring it here?" The man leans back with glint in his eye and I can hear Watson's torso shaking with silent laughter next to me.

"Yes, I suppose I can," I smirk back to him, and together Watson and I hobble into our home.


	8. Never Assume

**Writer's block is a cruel, cruel mistress. Let's get this party started again, huh? Drop a comment if ya like and enjoy~**

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Morning sunlight streams through a peek in the blinds, and the clutter that I have strewn over our floors these past days throws silhouettes across our room. Watson unravels himself from the vice-like grip of my fingers and takes a few wobbly steps to the settee, where he lands with a heavy thump. I watch as the motes float up around him and marvel at his obliviousness. (_Everything in this moment settles contentedly at the pit of my stomach; oh John, we are back to our restored places, bodies and souls dusted and placed carefully back on their adorned shelves and can't you notice it?) _

The settee is cast in shadows, and I can only see a slice of Watson's face in smoky orange light. The rest of him mingles with the cushions in the dimness, and (for a moment) he strikes me as some kind of war-tattered god, bathing in the hues of his resurrection. I circle our chairs, poke by the fireplace in search of my coin-purse and keep my eyes flickering to him.

(His leg still quivers restlessly.) _(He seemed so ashamed walking up those simple seventeen stairs, tremulous and broken muscles straining with exertion.)_

He speaks: "How _did _you manage this, Holmes?" (_Would he call me Sherlock?)_ (Push that thought from your mind!) I watch as he pushes his toe against a pile of papers that adorn our floor like insects.

"I am an easily bored man, Watson. You must realize by now that our flat is nothing but organized chaos."

"Yes, but this," his hand sweeps the room, "this is just chaos." There is a faint smile that lingers around him, one that reaches out to me with persuasive tendrils but I fight the urge away. I stoop down in front of our chairs instead, filling my hands with empty cigarette cartridges.

"Was there nothing to entertain you?" he continues, "I refuse to believe that you have not received one request for a case in the almost-fortnight I spent unconscious." I can feel my nerves begin to tingle underneath my skin.

"There was one from Lestrade. Day seven," I say, letting the cigarette cases fall from my arms into the wastebasket. Watson shifts on the settee and looks up at me.

"Day seven?" His eyebrows hang low over his eyes, until: "Did you classify the days I spent comatose?" There is equal parts incredulity and confusion written in the lines of his face, and a sharp spike of insecurity runs up my spine. (Oh these _feelings_, you've brought out the worst in me, John.) (_Or perhaps the best?) _

"Of course," I answer, "and I ignored the case." _Why?_ it sits on the tip of his tongue, but it never reaches the air. He must sense how hard my words have become for he lets the conversation drop from our minds as I drop to my knees.

I begin to crawl on the floor, hands searching through carpet and loose paper in search of coin-purse. Moments pass until I hear him move; he twists 'round on the cushions until his upper body is facing me, left shoulder slightly contorted to prevent any pain. (The sun now hits his face directly and every wrinkle, _every pore_ that he has borne is filled with light and he is painted with sublimity.) (_Would you enjoy my poetry, John? You of all people should appreciate the romanticism.) _

I lean down on my stomach to reach under a dusty cabinet, and watch as Watson becomes lopsided. His brows crease and lips form the single-worded question: "John?"

My hand freezes.

My mind races (the insecurity bites again):

_Did I speak his name aloud? Did my mind betray my lips and force his Christian name out into the open once more? _

_Is he angered?_

_Curious_

_Troubled _

_Confused_

_Will he accept a lie?_

_Should I give him the truth?_

The realization, fogged by my mind's outbursts, suddenly becomes stark clear: he is referring to our leaving of the hospital early this dawn, where my mingled sense of happiness and jealousy spawned his first name.

_Why bring this topic up now? _

Only moments have passed in the world outside of my brain, and I can hear Watson speak again, like a buzz in the back of my skull.

"I am only curious, Holmes. I have never heard you speak my forename before, not, well," he pauses, contemplates, "not in the few decades I have known you."

His voice sounds soft, his face gentle. He does not seem judgmental, only interested. I open my mouth and the truth spills out:

"The word slipped out, Watson, believe you me. I was relieved of your recovery, of course and I certainly did not mean to offend you." To my (mild) surprise, Watson gives me a look of castigation.

"Never once did I say it offended me," he says, and his voice is like rusted steel. (My coin-purse is clutched tightly in my hand but I continue the charade of searching, if only to keep this strange conversation going, cabbies be damned.) "If I can be entirely honest with you," he says _(of course you can Watson)_, "I found it refreshing, in a way. I've always been surprised that you have kept such formality with me over all these years."

"Formality is a necessity, Watson."

"Not with you," he rebukes, "not with the two of us." My body is chilled with a layer of disquiet and the cold nip of our floor; what should my next words be?

"I have always assumed that you would prefer formality, Watson." I fight for my point, though I do not know why. A smile hints at the corner of his mouth.

"Never assume, Sherlock."

The cabbie is still waiting when I reach him, appropriate amount of money in tow.

He gives me a scathing glare and a handful of choice words and I can do nothing but smile.


End file.
